I don’t know. Nothing changed things. I made no resolve, settled no unanswerable questions. But one morning I got up early, changed trains at a different station, got out where I had not been in a long, long time and presented myself at Mitzi’s apartment building. The doorthing opened its jaw to sniff my fingertips and read my palm print. Medium success. It didn’t admit me, but it didn’t clamp down to hold me until the cops came either. In a minute Mitzi’s sleepy face appeared on the screen. “It really is you,” she said, thought for a minute and then added, “You might as well come on up.” The door opened long enough for me to squeeze through, and all the way up on the hang-on lift I was trying to figure out what had been odd about the way she looked. Hair tousled? Sure, but obviously I’d got her right out of bed. Expression peculiar? Maybe. It was clearly not the look of someone glad to see me. I pushed that question to the corner of my mind where the growing mountain of unanswered questions and unresolved doubts was locked away.
